"I don't deserve to kiss you, for I have let you try yourself beyond your strength.-How you look!-Oh, how you look!".

"Never mind how I look," said Fleda, bringing her face so close that her aunt could not see it. "You helped me all you could, aunt Lucy-don't talk so—and I shall look well enough by and by. I am not so very tired."

"You always were so!", exclaimed Mrs Rossitur, clasping her in her arms again;-" and now I am going to lose you too. My dear Fleda!—that gives me more pleasure than anything else in the world!".

But it was a pleasure well cried over.

"We shall all meet again, I hope-I will hope ❞—said Mrs Rossitur, meekly, when Fleda had risen from her arms.

"Dear aunty!-but before that-in England-you will come to see me-Uncle Rolf will bring you."

Even then, Fleda could not say even that without the blood mounting to her face. Mrs Rossitur shook her head and sighed; but smiled a little too, as if that delightful chink of possibility let some light in.

"I shouldn't like to see Mr Carleton now," she said, "for I could not look him in the face; and I am afraid he wouldn't want to look in mine, he would be so angry with me."

The sun was sinking low on that fair May afternoon, and they had two miles to walk to get home. Slowly and lingeringly they moved away.

The talk with her aunt had shaken Fleda's calmness, and she could have cried now with all her heart; but she constrained herself. They stopped a moment at the fence to look the last before turning their backs upon the place. They lingered, and still Mrs Rossitur did not move, and Fleda could not take away her eyes.

It was that prettiest time of nature which, while it shews, indeed the shade side of everything, makes it the occasion of a fair contrast. The grave-stones cast long shadows over the ground, foretokens of night where another night was resting already; the longest stretched away from the head of Hugh's grave. But the rays of the setting sun, softly touching the grass and the face of the white tombstone, seemed to sayThy brother shall rise again." Light upon the grave! The promise kissing the record of death!—It was impossible to look in calmness. Fleda bowed her head upon the paling and

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cried with a straitened heart, for grief and gratitude together.

Mrs Rossitur had not moved when Fleda looked up again. The sun was yet lower-the sunbeams, more slant, touched not only that bright white stone-they passed on beyond, and carried the promise to those other gray ones, a little further off; that she had left-yes, for the last time; and Fleda's thoughts went forward swiftly to the time of the promise"Then shall be brought to pass the saying which is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. Ŏ death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ." And then, as she looked, the sunbeams might have been a choir of angels in light, singing, ever so softly, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill towards men."

With a full heart Fleda clasped her aunt's arm, and they went gently down the lane without saying one word to each other, till they had left the graveyard far behind them, and were in the high road again.

Fleda internally thanked Mr Carleton for what he had said to her on a former occasion, for the thought of his words had given her courage, or strength, to go beyond her usual reserve in speaking to her aunt; and she thought her words had done good.

CHAPTER XXVI.

"Use your pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter." -MERCHANT OF VENICE.

On the way home, Mrs Rossitur and Fleda went a trifle out of their road to say good-bye to Mrs Douglass's family. Fleda had seen her aunt Miriam in the morning, and bid her a conditional farewell; for, as after Mrs Rossitur's sailing she would be with Mrs Carleton, she judged it little likely that she should see Queechy again.

They had time for but a minute at Mrs Douglass's. Mrs Rossitur had shaken hands, and was leaving the house when Mrs Douglass pulled Fleda back.

"Be you going to the West Indies too, Fleda?"

No, Mrs Douglass."

"Then why don't you stay here?"

"I want to be with my aunt while I can," said Fleda. "And then do you calculate to stop in New York?" "For a while," said Fleda, colouring.

"Oh, go 'long!" said Mrs Douglass, "I know all about it. Now, do you s'pose you're agoing to be any happier among all those great folks than you would be if you stayed among little folks?" she added, tartly; while Catherine looked with a kind of incredulous admiration at the future lady of Carleton.

"I don't suppose that greatness has anything to do with happiness, Mrs Douglass," said Fleda, gently.

So gently, and so calmly sweet the face was that said it, that Mrs Douglass's mood was overcome.

"Well, you ain't agoing to forget Queechy?" she said, shaking Fleda's hand with a hearty grasp.

"Never-never."

"I'll tell you what I think," said Mrs Douglass, the tears in her eyes answering those in Fleda's—"it'll be a happy house

that gets you into it, wherever 'tis! I only wish it wa'n't out o' Queechy."

Fleda thought, on the whole, as she walked home, that she did not wish any such thing. Queechy seemed dismantled, and she thought she would rather go to a new place, now that she had taken such a leave of everything here.

Two things remained, however, to be taken leave of-the house and Barby. Happily Fleda had little time for the former. It was a busy evening, and the morning would be more busy; she contrived that all the family should go to rest before her, meaning then to have one quiet look at the old rooms by herself a leave-taking that no other eyes should interfere with. She sat down before the kitchen fire-place, but she had hardly realised that she was alone when one of the many doors opened, and Barby's tall figure walked in.

"Here you be," she half whispered. "I knowed there wouldn't be a minute's peace to-morrow; so I thought I'd bid you good-bye to-night."

Fleda gave her a smile and a hand, but did not speak. Barby drew up a chair beside her, and they sat silent for some time, while quiet tears from the eyes of each said a great many things.

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Well, I hope you'll be as happy as you deserve to be”were Barby's first words, in a voice very altered from its accustomed firm and spirited accent.

"Make some better wish for me than that, dear Barby."

"I wouldn't want any better for myself," said Barby, determinately.

"I would for you," said Fleda.

She thought of Mr Carleton's words again, and went on in spite of herself.

"It is a mistake, Barby. The best of us do not deserve anything good; and if we have the sight of a friend's face, or the very sweet air we breathe, it is because Christ has bought it for us. Don't let us forget that, and forget him."

"I do, always," said Barby, crying-"forget everything. Fleda, I wish you'd pray for me when you are far away, for I ain't as good as you be."

"Dear Barby," said Fleda, touching her shoulder affectionately, "I haven't waited to be far away to do that."

Barby sobbed for a few minutes, with the strength of a strong nature that rarely gave way in that manner; and then

dashed her tears right and left, not at all as if she were ashamed of them, but with a resolution not to be over

come.

"There won't be nothing good left in Queechy, when you're gone, you and Mis' Plumfield-without I go and look at the place where Hugh lies"

"Dear Barby," said Fleda, with softening eyes,

be something good yourself?"

"won't you

Barby put up her hand to shield her face. Fleda was silent, for she saw that strong feeling was at work.

"I wish't I could," Barby broke forth at last, "if it was only for your sake."

"Dear Barby," said Fleda, "you can do this for me-you can go to church, and hear what Mr Olmney says.

I should go away happier if I thought you would, and if I thought you would follow what he says; for, dear Barby, there is a time coming when you will wish you were a Christian more than you do now; and not for my sake."

"I believe there is, Fleda."

"Then, will you?—won't you give me so much pleasure ?" "I'd do a'most anything to do you a pleasure."

"Then do it, Barby.

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Well, I'll go," said Barby. "But now just think of that, Fleda-how you might have stayed in Queechy all your days, and done what you liked with everybody. I'm glad you ain't, though I guess you'll be better off."

Fleda was silent upon that.

"I'd like amazingly to see how you'll be fixed," said Barby, after a trifle of ruminating. If 'twa'n't for my old mother, I'd be 'most a mind to pull up sticks, and go after you."

"I wish you could, Barby; only I am afraid you would not like it so well there as here."

"Maybe I wouldn't. I s'pect them English folks has ways of their own, from what I've heerd tell; they set up dreadful, don't they?"

"Not all of them," said Fleda.

No, I don't believe but what I could get along with Mr Carleton well enough-I never see any one that knowed how to behave himself better."

Fleda gave her a smiling acknowledgment of this compli

ment.

"He's plenty of money, ha'n't he?"